Best Served Cold
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: “I’m sorry. The sheer amount of cholesterol in this room is making me extremely irritable." Kurt is stressing over his Dad's new relationships. Tina just wants to help.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1 of 2.

Back to writing after a traveling hiatus—airplanes are not my friends. Thank you to all the very nice people who left lovely reviews on my last couple of stories: you're all ace.

I don't own anything Glee related. I also don't own Bravo or TGI Fridays, though the former would be nice.

* * *

Tina knew that something was terribly, horribly wrong the moment she stepped into Kurt's house and, instead of breathing in the usual blend of cleaning products and eucalyptus, was able to detect a faint odor of _cheese sauce._ Mr. Hummel's truck was missing from the driveway, so there was no way Burt had somehow snuck the offending food past his son's sharp senses. And, she remembered, they had agreed on rehearsing at 6:30 because Kurt's dad would be out, and they could play their music as loud as they wanted. But Kurt? _Cheese sauce?_ Tina glanced back out the door behind her. It was a little windier than normal, but no visible signs of the pending apocalypse, which was good at least.

She took a minute to unlace her combat boots (she forgot to take them off the first time she was here, and Kurt's screech when she nearly scuffed the pine floorboards had made the glasses on the kitchen counter vibrate dangerously) before creeping softly into the kitchen. "Kurt? Is everything…oh my God."

It was worse than she had imagined. Kurt was facing the stove wearing a black apron with pinstripes, trimmed with an honest-to-God _ruffle_ at the bottom. Which wouldn't have been too totally weird, except for the cuisine that surrounded Kurt—and there was a lot of it—was a horrifying assortment of fatty, greasy, bar food that Tina knew for a fact that Kurt wouldn't willingly consume if there was a gun held to his well-coiffed head: nachos with cheese sauce and chopped jalapeños, pizza piled high with pepperoni and sausage, macaroni and cheese with some sort of breadcrumb crust, and…no, it couldn't possibly be…

"Is it 6:30 already? Give me just a moment to finish up. Can you pass me the buffalo sauce? I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but for some reason I just can't get the wings to coat properly—the consistency is just off." Kurt was making buffalo wings. W. T. F.

Tina's mother couldn't by any stretch of the imagination be called a homemaker of any sort, so Tina had very little practical experience to go off of. But she was pretty well versed in movies, and Kurt was currently giving off such a creepy, Stepford Wife vibe that she was genuinely afraid for his sanity.

And possibly that the real Kurt was in a shallow ditch somewhere and that this was some creepy robot replacement. What, technology is boss, it could totally happen.

"Kurt," she said slowly, using the same tone she might use on a hungry, rabid dog. "What are you doing? What's with all the food?" Kurt clicked his tongue at her, uncapping the sauce and pouring a liberal amount over the wings. "Clearly, Tina, I'm cooking. But you already knew that, unless—as I warned you copious times to apparently no avail—that chemical-laden dye you insist on trashing your hair with has finally permeated your skull and permanently damaged your brain." He gripped both sides of the pan, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. "What is it that you really want to ask me, Tina, because I'm really not in the mood for Twenty Questions."

T bristled. Kurt could be brash and abrasive, but usually there was some warning before he lashed out. If she was confused and worried before, now she was just annoyed. "That tone is unnecessary," she informed him coldly. "Forgive me for being a little concerned, but in case you haven't noticed, your kitchen looks like a T.G.I. Fridays. And," she continued, snatching up the offending tub, "you're cooking with butter. _Butter_, Kurt! What the hell is going on? It's like some weird ass parallel universe in this room and it's freaking me out!"

Kurt sighed, dropping his face into his hands for a brief second before snapping back up and fixing his hair. "You're right," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry. The sheer amount of cholesterol in this room is making me extremely irritable. I'm going to have to use my emergency skincare routine for the next three days just to get the ambient grease out of my pores; I don't know what I was thinking."

He gave Tina a small smile. After a second, she returned it.

"You don't eat any of this," Tina pointing out the obvious, "Why are you making it at all?" Kurt motioned to his laptop, which was resting on the Formica table next to a plate of loaded potato skins. "Men eat this"—and here, Kurt managed to both gesture around the room and shudder simultaneously—"while watching sports. I googled it." He frowned at the computer, buffing his nails on his apron.

"Dad and his new pseudo-son have been watching basketball together for two weeks now. If there isn't a game on, they're glued to ESPN like Jesus is going to make an appearance. Oh, they're not here now," he added, seeing Tina gazing at the door to the living room. "They're at the Hudson's. There's a Project Runway marathon on tonight, and I told Dad that if he even thought about taking the remote from me this evening, I'd drop by his weekly poker game in vintage Oscar de la Renta. And not," he intoned, raising an eyebrow at Tina conspiratorially, "from the Men's collection either." He turned away from her as he began loading dishes into the sink.

Tina frowned, confused. "So you're cooking for them?" Kurt nodded. "But why?" she asked. "I totally understand that you're not crazy about Finn and your dad spending so much time together. I wouldn't like it either, if it were me. But isn't this, like, enabling them?" When Kurt turned back around, Tina saw that his eyes were glittering with unshed tears. "How else am I supposed to contribute?" he asked, his voice gentle as if trying to soothe himself. "I don't like sports; I don't know anything about them. I only joined the football team so that Dad could be proud of me for something that he could understand—I still don't know how the game works, nor do I really care. Sure, I could sit on the couch with them and cheer when they cheer, be part of it all. But it doesn't change the fact that Finn is actually a much better son for someone like my Dad than I am. And besides," he sniffed, "what a colossal waste of time. How would I have time to maintain my hair care procedures and keep up with my wardrobe adjustments? I'd fall so behind."

Kurt opened the drawer to the left of the sink and pulled out a roll of saran wrap. "Much as I hate contributing to their eventual coronary heart disease and eventual demise by serving this fat-filled crap, I'm a good cook, which is something Finn is vehemently not. He burned instant pudding the other day, the sweet, clueless idiot." Kurt shook his head fondly. "Maybe I don't like it, but if this is what I have to do to keep a place in my own family, I'll do it, Tina."

Silently, Tina reached out and pulled her friend into a hug. Kurt leaned into her, laying his head on her shoulder and letting her stroke his back. "You smell like Tide," he muttered into the fabric of her shirt. She smacked him in the shoulder blade. "It's a good thing!" he clarified.

Finally, Kurt stood up and straightened his apron as Tina reached up to fix his hair, which had gotten slightly disheveled. "You know what?" she asked. "I'm not really in the mood to dance. Why don't you go disinfect, and I'll wrap up all the food and do the dishes? Then we can just hang out or watch TV or something. I hear there's a Project Runway marathon on, if you're interested." Kurt's smile was brilliant as he handed her the saran wrap. "Thanks, Mom. You're a goddess," he told her, and disappeared into the basement.

Tina began wrapping up the food and loading it into the refrigerator, finding spaces on the shelves next to Kurt's meticulously prepared organic dishes. Before starting in on the dishwashing, she pulled out her cell phone and shot a text to Mercedes: _Cnt come w/u + K on Wed; but don't tell!! Azn-grl has a plan…_

By the time Kurt came back up the stairs, freshly showered, the kitchen was immaculate and Tina was curled up on his couch, remote in hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 of 2 for this story. Since tomorrow's episode may render this half noticeably inaccurate, I typed extra fast so I could get it posted today.

I own a car, but nothing Glee related.

* * *

"Mr. Hummel?"

Burt Hummel looked up from the upraised hood of the truck he was working on to see a little Asian girl standing in the doorway of the shop. He frowned, trying to remember where he'd seen her before. Her face looked familiar, but he couldn't place the purple chunks of hair or slightly off-beat clothing. She smiled shyly at him, as if she recognized his confusion. "I don't know if you remember me," she said, "My name's Tina Cohen-Chang. I'm in Glee club with your son." She held out her hand, and he shook it. That was it—she was one of the girls who had come over to "work on conditioning exercises" with Kurt, the same day he'd come home early and caught his son dancing around in a sparkly cat suit. Burt hadn't really paid her much attention, even when Kurt had lied and said she was his girlfriend. He'd been a little more concerned about Kurt's exponentially feminine wardrobe at the time.

"Nice to meet you, again," he said gruffly, shaking off the memory and focusing on the girl in front of him. "Kurt's not here today, he had something to do with Mercedes. Should be back around five." He glanced up at the clock on the wall; it was almost four. "You can wait if you want to," he offered. "There's a coffee machine in the office, and Kurt keeps some sort of fruit cocktail drink in the mini-fridge." Tina gave him a small, watery smile and shook her head. "No thank you. I, um—I actually came by for some help. My car is about a quarter mile down the road. I don't know what happened, I must have run over a bottle or something. When I pulled over, one of my front tires was completely flat. I have a spare, but I…kinda don't really know how to change it." Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, and she was looking at her boots instead of at him. "I knew your shop was really close, so I thought I'd come by and see if Kurt could come help me fix it."

Burt gave her a once over—skinny arms that would almost certainly have trouble loosening the lug nuts on the hubcap, shiny eyes that were blinking back tears. Poor kid was probably shaken, but God, that was all he needed. He _really_ hoped this girl wasn't going to cry in front of him. Crying, emotional women were not his strong suit, and add in the fact that this was one of Kurt's friends and he barely knew her, well…

"Give me a few minutes to finish up with this one," he said, indicating the engine he had been repairing. "I'll come help you."

Tina's head snapped up. "Are you sure?" she asked quickly. "I don't want to put you to any trouble." Burt shook his head. "It's not a problem. I'm actually ahead of schedule today. Was thinking of closing up early." That wasn't strictly true. He had a couple more cars to tend to that day, and taking half an hour to hike out to her car, change the tire, and come back would mean shutting down at 6:30 instead of 6:00. But it was only a tire, and she was Kurt's friend, and surprisingly enough, Burt found that he actually wanted to help.

Five minutes later, Burt was padlocking the garage door and hanging up a "Back in 30 minutes" sign, while Tina waited quietly behind him, holding a jack. They started down the road in the direction of her car, gravel crunching under their feet. "So," Burt started, not a fan of awkward silences, "You're in the singing club with Kurt?" Tina lit up. "We've both been in it since Mr. Schuester took over the club. We're really lucky to have Kurt. He's so talented. Not just at singing either: he's one of the best dancers—only Brittany and Mike are better than him, and they've both been dancing since they were kids."

Burt nodded solemnly. "Guess I'm not surprised," he said, eyes straight ahead on the road. "Didn't get it from me. His mother was a dancer in high school. Gifted, her teachers said. Kurt is a lot like her." And he was. It was difficult to look at Kurt some days, he looked so much like her: small boned, slim wrists, blue-grey eyes that always seemed to look right through him. The similarities weren't just physical, either. Kurt's confidence, his aesthetic sensibilities, his way with people; in so many ways, his son was her spitting image. And as much as he wished sometimes that he and Kurt had more in common, that he understood his own kid better, he was so thankful that Kurt had turned out so much more like her than like himself. If Kurt was their legacy together, better that he embody the best qualities of the two of them. And she had been, by far, the better.

So lost was Burt in his thoughts that he nearly forgot about Tina walking beside him until he saw her car pulled over on the side of the road, several yards in front of them. He didn't even need to ask which tire needed replacing: the front of the car was noticeably tilted toward the driver's seat. She had parked on a flat stretch of road, which would at least make the job easier. "Go ahead and grab the spare out of the trunk," he told her, and she hurried to comply as he began loosening the lug nuts.

Tina sat on the spare tire next to him as he eased the jack under the car and cranked it, bringing it to a stop when the tire was about half a foot off the ground. "Parents never taught you how to change a tire?" he asked conversationally. She reddened. "No, sir. They travel a lot for work. They're…not really around much." Burt nodded, not wanting to pry. Privately, he thought that any parents who left their kids to fend for themselves shouldn't be parents, but what other families did was their business.

"Kurt, he's really lucky to have you, you know?" she was saying quietly, taking the handful of bolts from Burt as he pulled off the tire. "It's obvious how much he looks up to you. Most of the kids in Glee have divorced parents or only their mom or dad, and not all of them are really all that great at raising kids."

Burt nodded, thinking of Carol. She was a single parent too, and though she did her best, he knew there were times that she felt inadequate as a mother. He couldn't blame her, he felt the same way about being a single dad at times. How does a small town hick even go about raising a boy like Kurt, who was sensitive and artistic and obviously destined for greater things beyond this dusty little town?

"Kurt told me how you gave Mr. Schue a verbal smackdown to get him an audition for Defying Gravity a couple months ago," Tina continued. "Not a lot of parents would have done that, sticking up for their son like that. Mine…." She paused. "Mine wouldn't. It meant so much to him. You're his hero, Mr. Hummel."

Burt shook his head. "No, I'm not," he admitted, gesturing to her to hand him the new tire. "Don't get me wrong, I wish I could be. But in the end, Kurt is going places. He's going to be a champion someday, and I'll just be the guy who tried not to screw him up too badly." He lined up the tire properly before easing it in place. "I love my boy," he told Tina. "He's my only son, and I love him. I just hope he knows that."

One by one, Tina handed him the lug nuts. "You have to put them all on first, and then tighten them together," he showed her. "Don't try and put them on and tighten them one at a time." She nodded as he screwed them in place. "Kurt's good at this sort of thing, helps me out in the shop a few days a week." Tina smiled. "He helped me change the oil a few weeks ago," she admitted. "I made him kimchi to say thanks, did he let you try it?" Burt wrinkled his forehead in thought. "The red spicy stuff?" he asked. She nodded, beaming. He nodded back. "You should give Kurt the recipe. I probably don't want to know what's in it, do I?" Tina's eyes crinkled. "Nothing bad," she promised.

Burt took a look at the tire he'd taken off Tina's car. "So you ran over a bottle?" he asked, fingering the giant gash in the tire. "I think so," she said innocently. "I heard the noise, but didn't notice that anything was wrong for another minute or two." Burt looked skeptically at the tire. There was no way a glass bottle had done this kind of damage. The rip was toward the outside edge of the tire, a long, straight, slightly textured cut—a classic slashed tire if he had ever seen one. And taking into consideration the convenient location of the car trouble, the topic of their conversation, and the fact that this was the one afternoon a week that Kurt wasn't either at the shop or at Glee rehearsal, well…

Burt didn't like to lay blame, but he would be willing to lay money on the likelihood that Tina Cohen-Chang had a pocketknife or a sharp letter opener stashed in her glove compartment.

"You'll need a new spare," he told her. "I don't have this make in the shop, but I'll order you one. I'll send it to school with Kurt for you; it should only take a few days. No, no, it's on the house," he waved at her, seeing her reach for her wallet. "You're Kurt's friend, and a good one, it sounds like."

Tina looked down at her new tire. "Thank you so much, Mr. Hummel, I'm really grateful for all your help." She held up her keys. "Let me give you a ride back to your shop?" Burt nodded his assent, and settled into the passenger seat with the slashed tire on his lap. He studied Tina out of the corner of his eye as she drove. She was a nice girl. If all of Kurt's friends were this loyal, he was a lucky kid.

And one who should probably brush up on his lie detecting skills. Girl should go out for the school play if she wasn't in it already.

She thanked him once again as she pulled to a stop outside Burt's garage. He climbed out of the car and was just about to close the door when a thought occurred to him. He leaned forward, looking back in the car. "Those dancer kids you mentioned, Mark or Brittany or whoever. The ones that are better than Kurt." Tina nodded. "Do you think you could find out what studio they take lessons at, maybe get me the phone number?" Tina smiled up at him. "Will do, Mr. Hummel." Burt closed the door and rapped on the roof of her car. He watched for a minute after she drove away, before opening the garage back up for the afternoon.


End file.
